Relapse

Twisted thoughts now stir in the breeze of a long, lost storyline. Rag-tagged memories of those once vivid colors have already turned gray in the mist of our pre-dawn fog and the clock has since forfeited any concept of responsibility. Surely, I cannot be blamed for this. I mean, clearly, it was not even a given choice. I had just gotten out of bed, in fact, and I seriously don’t believe I was completely there at the time. Who’s to say? Maybe I was still onboard a train heading back to last weekend. Do I still need an alibi? Would that truly make a difference? Hell no! The judge has already dismissed the evidence and, besides… I’ve got the munchies anyway.

Oh, make no jokes about it. Here I sit with a cup of coffee in one hand and a target on my forehead. The smoke from my cigarette has begun to recount the minutes of our last meeting and some obscure, shadowy figure has mistakenly let the cat out of the bag. Oh yes. This is all too sudden. This wasn’t even in the original script, if I am recalling everything incorrectly. Regardless, it is time to cash in the chips, tally up the results, and summarize it for this naked audience. No one is comfortable, not even the cat.

Like a strand of hair caught in the teeth of industry, the poet inside me bleeds out all over the page. Fear cautiously walks about with non-slip shoes carrying a butcher knife crafted from the very bowels of a hang-over and there are no hills to run to for shelter. Mark my words: this is no place for children. There’s tossed salad stuck to the ceiling and peanut butter caked to the roof of my mouth. Pop the hood. Grab the cables and let’s jump-start this chaos in celebration of all things green with envy. Hold on tight. You’re here for the duration of this ride.

About Mihkael Fournier

Photographer, Graphic Artist, Writer/Novelist, Clown Magician
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